


A Prison of Our Own Making

by Scifigal90



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Book Club for Two, Books, Care packages, Cigarettes, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Letters, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, POV Alternating, Pen Pals, Prison, Smoking, car theft, letter writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scifigal90/pseuds/Scifigal90
Summary: Crowley had been in prison for a year when the letter came.  No one wrote him in here. No one from his life before visited him.  No one seemed to care.  So who was writing him?Crowley pulls out a single piece of stationary.  It is actual stationary too rather than lined paper ripped out of a notebook or printer paper.  It has weight to it and is a soft cream color that matches the envelope.  Opening the folded paper, the writing looks old fashioned, like the writing in those BBC historical dramas.  Who does Crowley know that writes actual letters on real stationary?  The name on the bottom of the letter says Ezra Fell.  Crowley is pretty sure he has never met an Ezra Fell.So starts a friendship to lovers via letters between Crowley and Ezra
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 185





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Prison, domestic violence, smoking, misgendering  
> The domestic violence is not described but hinted though a black eye

Crowley was sitting in his bunk staring at the wall. There was nothing to do, but there was never anything to do. He finished his book already and couldn’t go to the library until tomorrow, hence the staring at the wall. Crowley has spent a lot of time in the past year staring at this wall. It never changes.

“Crowley, mail.” Smith, the guard calls. The mail is slid though the tiny slot in the door to the cell.

Crowley goes to pick it up. It is a single white envelope. There is his name on the front. The return address is Soho, London. How he misses London, being lost in the crowd. Who would be writing Crowley? No one from his old life has contacted him since his arrest. 

Crowley turns the letter over, going to open it. It has already been opened, of course the guards check the mail. Crowley pulls out a single piece of stationary. It is actual stationary too rather than lined paper ripped out of a notebook or printer paper. It has weight to it and is a soft cream color that matches the envelope. Opening the folded paper, the writing looks old fashioned, like the writing in those BBC historical dramas. Who does Crowley know that writes actual letters on real stationary? The name on the bottom of the letter says Ezra Fell. Crowley is pretty sure he has never met an Ezra Fell. Suddenly Crowley remembers the pen pal program he signed up for months ago. He never imagined someone would actually write to him. Also thought it would be though email, not an actual, honest to Someone, handwritten letter.

_Dear Mr. Crowley,_

_My name is Ezra Fell. I found your profile on the website for Tadfield Prison’s Pen Pal Program. I admit that I’m not sure what to write but my friend Tracy is encouraging me to make more friends. I never had a pen pal before but I thought this could be fun._

_I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I live and work in Soho, London. I own and run a bookstore. It is mostly antiques but I do keep some modern, popular stuff so the customers keep their hands off the first editions. I also run a book binding and restoration business on the side. This is where my true passion comes in. My favorite feeling is seeing a old book come back to life._

_I should like to hear from you, if you wish to be pen pals. I understand if you don’t. I can be reached at the address below._

_Sincerely,_

_Ezra Fell_

* * *

Ezra was working on restoring a first edition of Pride and Prejudice when he heard the mail drop though the slot. He spent the last week and half trying not to get his hopes up. Why would a prison inmate want to talk to him? Why would anyone? He was a stuffy old bookseller and had nothing to offer the world.

Tracy encouraged him to make more friends. She was encouraging Ezra to join a book club or start one because he owned a bookstore. He went to the computer in the back of his shop and tried the Google. He did not find any book clubs he wanted to join. Despite loving books, Ezra had a hard time with book clubs. They tended to go off topic and they usually read the modern books he didn’t like. 

After a bit of fruitless searching, Ezra typed “how to make friends” into the search engine. Somehow this search lead him to the Tadfield Prison website. There was a program wherein you could be pen pals with an inmate. This sounded like something that could work for Ezra. He could make a friend and not have all that nonsense about awkward meetings with long pauses and no one knows what to say. Plus, Ezra has always dreamed of having a pen pal.

He picked Anthony Crowley based on his picture. Red hair and honey golden eyes. He was beautiful. The page didn’t say why he was in prison but did include that Anthony liked plants and astronomy. He has spent most of his time in prison reading his way though the library. Maybe they could have a book club of two.

Ezra wrote the letter and sent it off before he lost his nerve. When Tracy came around for dinner a couple of days later, his lack of friends came up again.

“Did you look into a book club?” she asked.

“You know I don’t like those modern books,” he replied.

“You need to get out there and meet someone. I thought if you meet at a book club, you would at least have something to talk about.”

Ezra sighs. This wasn’t just about having friends, Tracy wanted him to meet “someone.” Ezra had given up on meeting someone in a romantic sense. It had been 2 years since Gabriel and Ezra was fine now. He didn’t need more heartbreak.

“Dear I don’t need to meet someone. I’m perfectly happy just with my books.” Ezra said glancing at his overflowing bookshelf in the corner.

“Books are not a substitute for company.” She stared him down.

“Yes, well I have you. I’m fine.” Tracy raised her eyebrows in disbelief but fortunately, she dropped the subject. Ezra had the feeling that she wouldn’t let the topic stay dropped though.

A week later and Ezra was trying very hard not to get his hopes up each time he heard the mail come though. It would be just bills again. The shop's bell tinkled. A customer, he’d best go out there and supervise.

It wasn’t a customer, just Anathema, the shopkeeper next to him. She sold witchy stuff, crystals and incense. She liked to come by to bug him about whatever was on her mind. Ezra wondered what it was today.

She was holding his mail and waving it around. She had obviously looked though it because the first words out of her mouth when she saw him come though the door was “Who do you know from Tadfield Prison?”

“No one.” He went to grab it from her. She held it just out of reach.

“Who? I’ll open it and read it if you don’t tell me.” She would make good on this threat too.

“Just a pen pal.” He tried to deflect.

“A pen pal? How did you get a prison pen pal?” Anathema looked like she didn’t believe him.

“Yes, well Tracy suggested I make new friends.”

“And your first thought was to start writing a criminal?”

“Well, no but I found the program on the Google and being locked up must be so lonely, I thought I could help someone. I wasn’t expecting a reply.” He snapped at her. He was a bit embarrassed about writing an inmate.

“Ok. What did they do?” Anathema was turning the letter over in her hands.

“I don’t know. Their profile didn’t say.” Ezra shrugged. It didn’t matter to him what Anthony did to get prison time, he just hoped he hadn’t killed anyone.

“Profile? Is there a picture?” Of course, Anathema wanted a picture.

Ezra show Anathema the profile. 

**Anthony Crowley**

**Inmate number: 4004**

**About: I don’t know what to put here. I like plants and stars. I miss my bed. I am currently trying to read though the library here. Its very boring in here.**

Next to the profile was a picture of Anthony. It was taken in the prison based on the orange jumpsuit. He had long flowing red hair and honey golden eyes. While the eyes had strange slit-like pupils, Ezra still thought them the most beautiful he had ever seen.

“That’s it? Not much to go on. His hair is pretty though.” Anathema commented.

“Yes, well, I thought maybe we could write about the books he is reading.” Ezra wrung his hands. Anathema made him nervous. 

She raised is eyebrows at him. “Only you would pick someone based on the ability to discuss books. Read the letter.” She finally let him have the letter. It was a standard envelope and the letter itself was on lined paper torn from a composition notebook.

_Dear Ezra Fell,_

_Just call me Crowley, none of that Mr. nonsense. I’ve never written a letter before so apologies ahead of time._

_I miss London and Soho. I miss just getting lost in the city. I used to walk for hours going nowhere really, just getting out of the house. Maybe I’ve passed by your shop before. I wasn’t a big reader before my incarnation, but there is literally nothing else to do here. I’m currently reading the James Bond books. I like them, lots of action. What books are your favorite? Do you have any other hobbies?_

_I thought I was going to get emails when I signed up for the pen pal thing. Your letter on actual stationary was a surprise. A good one though. Sorry about the notebook paper, its all I have._

_Crowley_

Anathema was looking at him expectantly when he looked up from the letter. Ezra sighed and let her read it. There was nothing scandalous about having a pen pal, even if he was incarcerated.

* * *

Yard time was not Crowley’s favorite. He had no group to hang out with, so he stood off to the side. He would rather be in the library. This was a complete 180 from high school, where he was the kid sulking out on the grounds, smoking with his friends and causing mischief. None of those friends knew where he was right now. He didn’t keep in contact after graduation, he was hell-bent on leaving that small town. As fast as he could he moved to London. He somehow found an even worse crowd in London, which is how he ended up here, in prison. 

He didn’t mean anything by boosting that car. He just wanted to get away for a day. It was a beautiful car, a Bentley, all sleek lines and black. He saw it on the road and was walking towards it before he was conscious of his decision. He saw a way to get farther from Luci that day. They had had a fight earlier, which was why Crowley was walking though the city. There was no way he was going home just to get the other eye blackened. So, he took the car and just drove, not really caring where he was going. When he stopped for petrol, a cop recognized the car as reported being stolen and arrested Crowley. It was Crowley’s fault for picking a car this time that was so distinctive. In the past, he always picked cars that blended in. Boosting cars wasn’t the best way to deal with his emotions but Crowley wasn’t great at emotions in the first place. He always ran from them. Doing so in a car just allowed him to run faster.

Crowley took another drag of his cigarette and continued watching the yard. The whistle blew signaling the end of yard time. Crowley took the last, very long puff of his cigarette and lined up with the rest of the inmates. They filed quietly inside, branching off to stand in front of their cell doors. The doors buzzed open and Crowley walked inside. There was another inmate in his cell, laying on his bunk. Crowley knew he was probably going to get another cellmate soon but still. It had been two weeks since his last cellmate had been paroled and Crowley had been enjoying the solitude and silence. 

Crowley groaned inward and snapped to the inmate, “That’s my bunk.”

The man, kid really, scrambled down from the top bunk. “Sorry, man, didn’t realize they were assigned.”

Crowley suppressed a wince at the use of man. Crowley didn’t consider himself a man despite having that checked on his birth certificate. He used he/him pronouns right now. Today, he/him fit Crowley, but mostly Crowley used he/him because it was the safest in prison. Maybe when he got out, his pronouns would change.

“They’re not. That one is just mine.” Crowley wished for a cigarette even though he just finished one. He had to ration them though. He could only afford one pack a week, so no more than 2 cigarettes a day. He had to save his second for bedtime. He would need it to calm down enough to sleep especially with having to get used to someone being in his space again.

“I’m David Stratton.” The kid had actually held out his hand to shake. Who was this kid? He would need to toughen up.

“Crowley”

Introductions over, Crowley took his book and laid in his bunk. He was reading Pride and Prejudice because Ezra had mentioned it in his most recent letter. The letter fell out of the book when Crowley opened it, he had been using it as a bookmark. He smoothed out the letter to read it again before continuing on with the book itself.

_Dear Crowley,_

_I am so happy that you’ve responded to me. I’ll admit I was worried you’d not want to write me._

_How long has it been since you’ve been able to walk the streets? If it was over ten years ago, I’m afraid that I didn’t have my shop at that time. I checked my stock and I do carry some James Bond. Are you allowed gifts? Could I send some reading material? Only I imagine a prison library has limited stock and one does feel better if the books are yours to own._

_Most of my hobbies revolve around books in some manner. I like reading, of course. I also restore old books. I love giving new life to the books. Getting them ready to live another new life being loved until they fall apart again. I also collect prophecy books and misprinted bibles._

_Being a bookseller, I read a little of everything, but I am particular to nineteenth century novels. I would say Austen is a favorite. I just finished a restoration on a beautiful first edition of her Pride and Prejudice. I may not sell it and instead keep it for my private collection. I do so hate to sell some of my books. I can just never be certain that the buyer will take appropriate care of the book._

_I did try my hand at other hobbies besides books but they did not work quite so well. My adventures in baking about burned down my flat, so I tend to head to the nearest cafe if I’m feeling peckish. My venture into knitting yielded similar results, although without the fire. These hands are just better with a book in them than anything else._

_I must apologize for the lack of email. I do own a computer and even have a website for the shop but I will admit I’m not technology savvy. I am a little old fashioned and prefer handwritten correspondence._

_What are some of your hobbies? Can you do them while incarcerated? What did you do before?_

_Please get back to me if I can send you something. I wish to cheer your day._

_Sincerely,_

_Ezra Fell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The format for this was partly inspired by This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. Each viewpoint will end with a letter.  
> I will try to update this every other week as life has suddenly gotten more hectic.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: prison, violence, drug use, misgendering

Ezra was fluttering about his bookshop. Crowley had written back and said Ezra could send something. But what? Ezra had looked in to if there was restrictions. He looked on the prison’s website and called them, asking pointed questions. The gist of it was that he could send books, clothes, blankets, some art supplies such as colored pencils and paper, watercolors. He could even send CDs or DVDs if the inmate had a way to play them. The list of what he couldn’t send was longer. Such things as food, alcohol, drugs, anything that could be used as a weapon.

Ezra was of course going to send a book or two but he also wanted to send something cozy for Crowley’s homesickness. He sounded terribly homesick and lonely based on his last letter. Ezra wanted to relieve some of this for him. But what to send for homesickness when Ezra barely knew him and knew nothing of Crowley’s home life. The only thing he knew was Crowley liked plants but he couldn’t send a plant. They were on the allowed list but had to be handed over in person on a visit but Ezra wasn’t sure about visiting. This was supposed to be a pen pal thing. Ezra wanted this so he wouldn’t have to meet someone. It would just be awkward for all involved. Long silence with nothing to say. Plus, it would be occurring in a prison meeting room and Ezra couldn’t imagine anything more cringey than that. What would they talk about? The only thing they seemed to have in common was reading books and that was a thin thread. Who made a whole friendship based on books?

Ezra was getting ahead of himself. First: what books to send? Second: what cozy, home like thing to send? First books: Crowley wrote that he liked the James Bond books. Maybe something along those lines? Ezra was fairly certain that he had a few of the Bond books floating around here somewhere. 

Searching the shelves, Ezra eventually came across a copy of Casino Royale and From Russia with Love, both reprints from the 70s. Ezra would send both. Now cozy home like thing. Ezra had no where to start on that front. Maybe he should ask Anathema or Tracy but going to them meant admitting to the embarrassment of wanting to send something to an inmate. To wanting to become further friends with someone who committed a crime and was in prison for it. 

Speak of a witch and she shall appear. Anathema was suddenly peering over his shoulder. Ezra had been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t even hear the shop’s bell tinkling. “Bond, huh? Didn’t think you liked anything from the last 50 years.”

Ezra startled, dropping the books. Glaring at her, he swept up the books from the floor. Fortunately, the books landed closed and unruffled. No pages were marred in their mistreatment. Even though it probably didn’t matter, considering the state those prison library books were probably in, Ezra still wanted to give Crowley books that were in good condition. 

“I’m a bookseller dear girl, I read almost everything. Also, these were originally printed in the 50s. ”

“Yeah but usually your books are more than a century old. You glare at anything newer than 1900.” Anathema thought for a minute before speaking, “Does this have anything to do with Crowley reading Bond?”

Ezra sputtered. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re implying.”

Anathema broke out into a gleeful grin and actually bounced on her toes. “It does. It does. What are you going to do, read them?”

Ezra blushed. He debated with himself. On one hand, deny involvement with Crowley. On the other, fess up and admit to needing help sending a care package. As Anathema already knew he was writing Crowley, denying was out. “Ah yes, well… um.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sending them to Crowley. I figure that he could use a bit of home comfort. Actually, I was hoping you could help me with something?”

Anathema raise her eyebrows but her grin stayed in place. “Sure.”

“Jolly good. Um… I wanted to send something cozy in addition to the books. Something to relieve a bit of the homesickness he mentioned in his last letter.” Ezra was blushing again. 

“Ok, like what? What’s he like?”

“He likes plants and cooking, but I can’t send either of those things, there’s restrictions. What says ‘I’m sorry you’re homesick and I wish I could do something?”

“I don’t know but let’s go to my shop.” Anathema turns and starts walking towards the door.

Ezra rolls his eyes. “I can’t send incense. No fire stuff.”

“Place to start!” she shouts over her shoulder.

Ezra locks up and scurries after. Tracey comes into Anathema’s shop looking for more incense and a new crystal ball, while they are discussing the pro and cons of various ideas to send. Anathema of course ropes her into helping. Ezra knew those two were going to gang up on him one day.

“Oh love, you took my advice. Not how I thought you would though.” Tracey said while pulling him into a hug. Tracey was much more touchy-feeling than Ezra but her hugs felt nice. Tracey and Anathema were the only people to touch Ezra since Gabriel. He missed it sometimes but he was fine.

“I’m just trying to be a friend. He’s terribly homesick and lonely, I think, in there. I just want to see if I can alleviate some of it.” Ezra shrugged. He was just being kind. He wasn’t doing anything special.

“Ok let’s go to the flea market tomorrow, see if we can send cozy to Crowley.” Tracey suggested.

In the most out of the way booth, Ezra found just the right thing. He hopes Crowley will like it.

_Ezra,_

_Please send something. Whatever you want to send. I think there’s some restrictions. Check the website. Anything new in here is fantastic. Would make my whole year._

_My hobbies in here mostly consists of staring at the wall above my bunk, smoking as many cigarettes as I can get my hands on, and reading whatever drivel I can find in the library._

_My hobbies outside of here are not much better. I grew plants. The windows in my old flat looked like miniature greenhouses. They were the most verdant plants in all of London. I’m sure they are dead or thrown out now. Its been a year since my arrest and I’m sure the guy I was living with tossed them the second he realized I wasn’t coming home. He didn’t like them very much. Always nagging me for how much space they took up._

_I like cooking. Became pretty good at it. Never burnt anything down. Favorite thing to make is probably a spicy curry or a pasta with white wine sauce. I miss homemade food. I miss wine. First thing I’m going to do when I get out of here is have a real meal. Curry maybe or actual fish and chips. The kind where the paper is translucent from all the grease. None of this mass-produced shit that tasted like it has definitely seen the inside of a microwave multiple times._

_Sorry I’m rambling, but now I’m extremely homesick. Which is ironic because I no longer have a home. Not going back to the guy I was living with._

_Its been a year in here. I have four more but I’m up for parole in two so maybe I can get out sooner._

_I read your Pride and Prejudice book. Not bad._

_Crowley_

* * *

Crowley was waiting in line for lunch. The food was terrible here. Most of it was bland, even after dumping on salt and pepper or hot sauce. Crowley wondered how they heated up the food. Did they have industrial sized microwaves endlessly spinning round and round? The food tasted as if it had been left in a freezer for a year then heated in a microwave repeatedly. It was also by turns still frozen and burning hot, most often on the same dish. How they managed this, Crowley had no idea.

Stratton was talking his ear off. In the last month, Crowley had learned to tune him out. The kid just never stopped talking, about the most asinine things. How he had breath left was anybody’s guess. Crowley was temped to punch him right in the mouth. Maybe a split lip and some loose teeth would shut him up. Probably wouldn’t. Crowley could see the kid talking straight though the blood splatter and subsequent trip to the surgery. He’d probably get the good drugs too and wasn’t that depressing. If Crowley couldn’t drift away on the good shit, then this kid couldn’t either.

Crowley kind of missed the drugs. He was high as fuck when he was arrested. The first couple of weeks were absolute hell. Withdrawal was a bitch he didn’t want to experience again. He knew that he could get and use in here if he was determined but he was clean and intended to stay that way. There was no way he was going back to Luci or some other asshole like him when he got out. Drifting away felt amazing and helped him cope but there was gaps in his memory and he didn’t like what Luci did while he was high. So, he went to the NA meetings and tried to deal with his emotions, rather than his time-honored tradition of burying them.

Crowley took his lunch, found the most inconspicuous table and sat down. Unfortunately, Stratton followed. Crowley stared at his food. Looks like some sort of spicy curry with unidentified meat. At least he could see some sort of green vegetable floating in. No naan though, just a limp piece of white bread, an affront to all decent curries everywhere. It smelled like spices, cumin, turmeric, garam masala, garlic and ginger but one taste proved that, yup, bland as shit. How the prison kitchen managed to put actual spices in something and then not actually deliver was a wonder to behold. How out of date were their spices?

Crowley sipped his lukewarm tea (the pot on the wall was always lukewarm, even after it was freshly filled) and prepared for the site of Stratton eating. Looking around the room he felt envious once more of inmates who had someone on the outside. They had someone bring them jeans and tees to wear, while Crowley was stuck in the prison issued grey sweatpants and grey tee. This uniform did not help the dysphoria he felt somedays. He missed his black skinny jeans and blazers, his skirts the days he couldn’t put on trousers. At least the sweatpants were comfortable. A few months ago, he got an extra-large tee by mistake from the laundry. He wore it like a dress, never leaving his cell that day. Since then he has always made sure to have an XL tee for dysphoria days. He also wears it to bed like a night dress. Little freedoms where he can find them.

Lunch is over and all the inmates are delivered back to their cells. Crowley beelines for his bunk to settle in for a long afternoon of reading and staring at the wall. Someone, he misses headphones. If he could just drown out all the shouts and screams from this place, his sentence would go a lot better. 

“Crowley, Stratton, mail,” shouts one of the guards, Fitkin he thinks. “Line up, hands where we can see them.” Why were they being told to line up? Mail is just shoved though the slot. Crowley lines up anyway, standing shoulder to shoulder with Stratton, hands clearly visible. 

Crowley gets his answer a second later when the door opens outward and Fitkin, one of two female guards on this floor, walks in. She hands Crowley a cardboard box and Stratton a large envelope. She glances round the room, looking for contraband, although this is not a room search, and leaves. The door lock clicks behind her. 

“Oh man, I bet this is the jeans my mum said she’d send.” Stratton commented, tearing into his package. Sure enough, jeans fell out along with a note. The note fluttered to the ground forgotten while Stratton held the jeans up to himself.

Crowley felt a vague stab of jealousy while he stared at his box. His brain had fogged over. In the almost 15 months he has been in prison, no one had ever sent him anything, not once. He didn’t even know if his parents knew he was here. There was a huge row before he left for London and he lost track of their numbers though subsequent phone changes, so he had no way to call them. He was sure they wouldn’t want to hear from him anyway.

“Hey man, whatcha get?”

“None of your fucking business.” Crowley growled. He was not going to share this with Stratton. Stratton shrugged and sat in his bunk to put on his new jeans.

Crowley hopped on to his bunk. Fortunately, he had the top one, affording him a little privacy. He sat the box in front of him. It was opened of course, everything in here was searched sooner or later. Opening the top flaps revealed a small pile of things topped with three (3!) envelopes. Crowley recognized Ezra’s handwriting on his usual cream stationary but the other he did not. He set all of them aside to read later. Now the topmost thing was made of fabric. Crowley lifted it out. It was a knitted hat, hunter green in color. Crowley felt tears well up. Not only had Ezra sent something soft and warm, it was something that could be worn regardless of how Crowley was feeling about gender that day.

Under the hat were two James Bond books. Crowley had read Casino Royal already but the library didn’t have From Russia With Love. He would tear though both this week. Crowley set the books off to the side. Somehow there was still something in the box. Reaching in he pulls out two pieces of art, both pressed between layers of cardboard to prevent bent edges.

The first piece is a fern drawn in color pencil on a white background. Crowley thinks it might be a Hart’s Tongue fern. Sure, enough at the bottom, in perfect calligraphy is the Latin name _A. scolopendrium._ The second piece is a painting of a garden. Its so lush and green it could be the Garden of Eden. In fact, it might be. Off in the bottom corner, half hidden behind a large plant, is an angel having a discussion with a serpent.

The tears come back. If he’s not careful, Crowley’s going to be full out sobbing. He reads the notes. The first one is from a Madame Tracey, who seems to be Ezra’s friend. She reminds Crowley of his Nana, the family member he was closest to. She seems to want to cluck over him. A tear actually does slip down his cheek at that thought.

The second note is from another Ezra friend: Anathema Device. She seems a bit scary but Crowley likes her and thinks he could be friends with her.

The third note is from Ezra and oh now he’s crying. Fortunately, its quiet. He hasn’t worked himself up to full heaving sobs just yet. But even if he did, would it matter? The dark here is full of sobs, rending the air with cries for every flavor of mother. Crowley hears every variant of Mum every night in every language. It seems that any warm, older female presence will do because he has also heard calls for Nana and Auntie and Sister. He has even heard Nanny a couple of times. Stratton is still in the phase of calling for his “mummy” at bed during the nightmares. Crowley’s sure he called out for Nana in his first few months.

Crowley tugs the hat on to his head and curls on his side facing the wall. He props the art against the wall lightly running over the lines with his fingertips. He falls asleep clutching the books and staring at the garden now gracing his presence.

_Hello Dearie,_

_I’m Ezra’s friend Tracey Potts. Ezra says I can’t send you homemade biscuits and tea but just know that you have a standing invination to those once you get out._

_Now Ezra told us about your homesickness. I’m so sorry you’re in there, love. How long has it been since you’ve been home? How long until you can go home? Anything I can do, you let me know. I’m here for you._

_I’ve knitted you the hat. Keep you warm in the coming winter. I didn’t know what colors you like so I chose the green to match the plants Ezra sent. I want to make you something else. What color would you like it? You can write back to me directly or let Ezra know and he’ll send it along._

_Keep your chin up love,_

_Madame Tracey Potts_

_Crowley,_

_Ezra says you don’t like mister but how about Anthony? Can I call you Tony? I’m Anathema. I own the shop next to Ezra. Jasmine Cottage: Occultist Specialties._

_Ezra says I can’t send you a healing crystal. Just so you know I intend to look up the restrictions and figure out away to send it to you anyway. It has to be messing up your aura trapped in prison surrounded by all that concrete._

_I think you should add me to your visitors list. Tracey too. We would like to meet you. Ezra is all flustered by you and we need more information._

_Anyway, write me back. Address below._

_Your new best friend,_

_Anathema Device_

_Dear Crowley,_

_I do hope you like the books. If you already read them, you’re welcome to give them away but I hope you keep them and find even a once of comfort therein. What other sort of books do you enjoy? Any other genres beside crime/thriller? You mentioned Pride and Prejudice as “not bad” last time. This does not make a review. I was sorely tempted to send you a dictionary and a thesaurus._

_I will admit to reading your books before I sent them off. Using your phrasing: not bad. Using mine: The adventure parts were quite thrilling. The villain’s speech was also quite fun. I did have a problem with Bond’s views on women and other races. He seems to go on a few rants where he degrades anyone not a straight, white, British male. As a British male (not straight) I feel a bit of guilt for that. I hope you, dear boy, do not smoke as much as Bond. It is terribly bad for you. But seeing as you are currently locked up, I will forgive this one vice._

_Your last letter made me hungry for a good fish and chip. I went out to my favorite chippie to enjoy such and dear me it was just as you described. I felt a bit guilty eating the exquisite meal while you are stuck with “ mass-produced shit that… has seen the inside of a microwave multiple times.” I promise you I’ll take you out when you’re free. Anywhere you want to go._

_I can’t send you a plant. The guard on the phone was very straightforward on that point. He said that I could however bring you one were I ever to visit. Anyway, I found the art at the flea market in the most out of the way booth. Tracey and Anathema helped me. I wanted to send you cozy to help with the homesickness. I hope it helps._

_Tracey and Anathema both professed a desire to help and have written you. I hope you don’t find this too terribly intrusive. They mean well. Tracey is demanding your favorite color. She wants to knit you a blanket. Expect that to show up in 6 to 12 months. Anathema has been trying to read your aura from afar. She says all the concrete and the sorrow are blocking her. She’s demanding an audience. I told her that even I have not met you in person but she is rather insistent. You do not have to give in._

_I’m sorry you no longer have a home. Do you have a plan for when you do get out? Sorry, silly question, I expect not, if you still have four years left. Just know that we here in Soho are rooting for you._

_Sending hope and cozy._

_Yours,_

_Ezra_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy this chapter got away from me. Its longer than i originally thought it was going to be. Updates on this fic will probably be irregular but i will try to keep to an every other week schedule 
> 
> Fair warning: i know nothing about the UK prison system. I've done the barest amount of Googling for this fic, the scant facts I've unearthed, I've included in this fic. Everything else is an amalgamation of the few documentaries on US prisons I've seen and Orange is the New Black. 
> 
> I've also never read any of the James Bond books. Ezra's review is based on several reviews from Goodreads and excerpts of Casino Royale 
> 
> I used one of my favorite lines "forward cozy asap" from the fic [Shotgun Wedding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148/chapters/53902456) by charlottemadison as a prompt for this chapter. If you haven't read Shotgun Wedding, go read it. Its fantastic. 
> 
> Hart's Tongue drawing found [here](https://www.discoverwildlife.com/how-to/identify-wildlife/how-to-identify-ferns/). I know nothing about plants and so googled.
> 
> The 'sending hope" line comes from Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
> 
> I'm on Tumblr: scifigal90


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: prison

Ezra was wondering though the book festival. It was a huge affair. Hundreds of shops set up stalls on the convention floor. Ezra’s stall was off in a corner, down one of the quieter paths. He had a few of his first editions on display, but mostly he was here to advertise his book restoration business. 

He left the stall with Newt to go poke around some of the other stalls. Newt was a new hire. He was under strict orders not to sell any of the first editions without Ezra there in person. Ezra had brought the Pride and Prejudice he had restored a couple of months ago, but had no intention of selling it. It was there to show off his restoration skills.

Ezra’s last employee left just before Gabriel did and Ezra just never got another. He threw himself into running the bookshop rather than dealing with his heartbreak and so didn’t need another employee. However, the festival last year wasn’t as much fun without help. He couldn’t leave the stall and have a look about. So, he hired Newt a couple of weeks ago.

The first time Anathema showed up, Newt dropped the stack of books he had been organizing. Ezra rushed over after hearing the clatter and found those two just staring at each other. Anathema snapped out of it first. She had come over to discuss auras and her latest theory on how to get something to Crowley. Also, to bug Ezra on Crowley adding her to the visitor list. 

Back at the book fair, Ezra was currently poking around an antiquarian book stall. It looked promising. The proprietor was vaguely familiar although Ezra couldn’t place him. Maybe he saw him last year. 

Buried under a pile of very old and mostly falling apart books, Ezra found something he couldn’t resist. A copy of Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Prophecies. Ezra had been looking for this book for almost 20 years. It was one of the rarest prophecy books. Almost all of the publisher’s copies had been destroyed because it had never sold. Ezra wondered if the proprietor knew what this was. Hopefully not, based on the book being buried in the worst stack.

Unfortunately, the proprietor did know a little of what he held. Not to the full extant but enough to wrangle some money out of Ezra. Ezra would still have paid more.

With the book carefully wrapped and tucked under his arm, Ezra wondered some more. He didn’t find any more special finds. There was a box of pulp fiction from the 60s and 70s he brought for his modern section. Another box was from an estate sale, most site unseen, but the top had an Oscar Wilde and Ezra just couldn’t help himself when it came to Wilde. 

Ezra popped back into the stall to deposit his boxes and check in on Newt. He was explaining the restoration Ezra did and was waving to the Pride and Prejudice for an example. The potential customer was nodding along. He wanted his second edition of The Great Gatsby touched up. Newt gave the shops card and told the customer to call and set up an appointment. 

Ezra headed back into the fray. He wondered more shops, stopping to discuss the trade with a few shop owners he knew. Eventually he made his way out of the antique section and into the newer/modern section. He was going to browse here for Crowley. Ezra wanted to find something to send. Anything that felt right. Eventually his eye was caught by a very bright and colorful display. 

_Book Family : Queer Books for All Ages_ , the sign proclaimed surrounded by a multitude of flags in a variety of colors. Ezra made a beeline for the stall. He needed to learn more about the queer community. It had been awhile since he had been an active part of the community and then only the gay section of it.

“Can I help you?” A young person with purple hair greeted them.

“Ahh, yes.” Ezra squinted at their name badge, which proclaimed _Avery they/them_. “I was looking to expand my knowledge of the queer community. I er… Do you have… that is… do you have anything on nonbinary persons?”

“Of course. Right this way.” Avery led them over to the opposite corner. They pulled a few volumes off the shelf and pressed them into Ezra’s hands. One was a graphic novel by the title of _Gender Queer._ Another book was a volume of memoirs called _Nonbinary._ The last book in the short stack was a book called _Life Isn’t Binary_. Avery was speaking again, “All these books really helped me discover my own identity.” They pointed to their pronoun tag. “They/them please.” 

“Of course. These are most helpful dear.” Ezra was turning the books over in his hands. He was excited to read them and maybe understand Crowley better. “Do you by chance have anything on being queer while incarcerated?”

A slightly shocked looked passed over their face before they schooled their features into the blank but helpful expression Ezra knew well from his own retail work. “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that.” They thought for a moment. “I don’t think we have anything on incarceration here at the fair but we might have more at our location in London.”

“That’s quite alright. Do you mind if I have a look around before you ring up my purchases?”

“Of course.” They left to go help another person.

Ezra looked around the shop stall. There was an entire section of fiction with queer leads. A lot of them seemed to be science fiction or fantasy based on the number of spaceships and stars and explosions on the cover. Ezra wondered if Crowley would like any of them. He picked out a few just in case. Another section was dedicated to the history of queer persons in history. Ezra found a lovely history of London called _Queer City_. 

Checking out with his new books, he also purchased a gay pride flag and a nonbinary pride flag. He ambled back to the stall to relieve Newt for his break. He read the new books over the course of the rest of the weekend only stopping when a customer absolutely demanded it or Newt needed help.

_Ezra,_

_You might be an actual angel. The stuff you sent was the embodiment of cozy. Thank you. Tell Tracey and Anathema thanks also._

_My favorite colors are red and black but don’t have Tracey make anything in those colors because I don’t want to be affiliated with a gang. I’m just trying to keep my head down until I’m out of here. Grey, I guess would work. Like the clothes the prison gave me._

_Tell your friends that I’m going to write them back but can’t right now. I only get one free stamp a week and this one is going to you. Next week will be them. Do you think they’ll mind if I send their notes together? All my money is otherwise spent on cigarettes and instant coffee from the canteen. By the way I don’t smoke that much, only two cigs a day. What vice do I need to forgive you for?_

_I want to clear something up. I am not a boy. I’m nonbinary. Mostly male-presenting but I have days where I’m no gender. I am AMAB and did you know that all those government forms don’t have a “Nope, not happening” box for gender? Which is how I’m here in the MENS prison and fuck that annoys me every single day._

_What do you mean by “not straight”? Don’t answer that if you’re uncomfortable. You do not have to come out to me._

_Crowley_

_P.S. Tell Anathema I could do AJ for a nickname. Definitely NOT a Tony._

* * *

Crowley was sorting clothing. His application for a job had finally gone though. So now 4 days a week he got to leave his cell and be delivered to this windowless room known as the laundry. A row of massive washing machines roared along one wall. Opposite a row of equally loud dryers ran. 

It had been a couple of weeks. The job was not hard, in fact Crowley usually did it on autopilot. He allowed his brain to just drift off. Today he had been set to sorting the incoming clothing. Fortunately, they gave him gloves because some of this smelled something fierce. It was somehow more than just body odor. Crowley really didn’t want to know. He just sorted it into piles of prison issued and non-prison issued. The prison issued clothing was further subdivided into shirts and trousers and undergarments. The non-prison issued clothing was in garment bags with the prisoner’s name tag on it. The last pile of laundry was bedding and towels. This grossed out Crowley the most. Some of this stuff seemed to have blood and shit stains on it. Fortunately, all of this was washing with strong detergents and disinfects. 

Crowley concentrated on separating the laundry into the appropriate bins while checking to make sure that none of it touched his body except though gloved hands. After getting into a rhythm, Crowley allowed himself a daydream.

He imagined leaving the prison for good. He would get on a bus to the train station in Tadfield. He would buy himself a sandwich. First meal fantasy and this week it was a sandwich, piled high with bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado with mayonnaise and a huge order of chips. Anyway, he would have the sandwich and chips on the train headed to London. Once in London, he would head for Soho, to track down the bookshop and a certain angel. It would be a surprise. He would burst though the shop’s door and announce loudly “I’m out.” Ezra would come running and sweep Crowley in a hug. Ezra would automatically know who Crowley is and Crowley would know Ezra. This is where Crowley’s fantasy breaks down a little bit. He doesn’t know what Ezra looks like. Or sound like. Crowley can’t supply those details to his fantasy. He wishes he could. Crowley wants desperately to meet his friend. He’s a little worried that he’s actually developing a bit of a crush on Ezra. But that’s impossible. He can’t have a crush on a person he has never met, never seen, never spoken to. Crowley’s mind though supplies Ezra’s letters, sweet and caring and considerate. Crowley’s mind ventures further to Ezra’s most recent gift.

Crowley sat on his bunk, staring at the box. How was it possible that within a month he had another package from Ezra? He was honestly a little scared of it. The last one had such an emotional impact. It tore at his heart to have such kind words written to him and to know that somewhere in Soho there were three people that cared about him. What sort of impact would this box do? 

One way to find out. Crowley opened the cardboard box. Inside lay three books, all bound with nondescript brown cloth. They looked like some antique books from the nineteenth century. Crowley desperately hopes that Ezra hasn’t sent some of his first editions, especially if it’s a set. Crowley has no way to keep the books in good condition. 

Thumbing over the cloth bindings of the books, Crowley sets them aside, searching for a letter. Finding it, he tears it open, reading though it. Once read, Crowley glances at the books, reads the relevant paragraph again, and looks at the books some more. 

Crowley stares down the books for several minutes. Them being books, they do not return the gesture and rather anticlimactically, just sit there. Crowley finally picks up the books and thumbs one of them open. Inside is not some old Victorian novel as he expected, but rather a graphic novel of a person’s journey to realizing eirself as nonbinary. He quickly thumbs though the other books. Both of these are also about being nonbinary, one a series of memoirs and the other a way to think about the world in nonbinary terms. Crowley stares in wonder. Ezra not only read and then sent Crowley books about being nonbinary, he rebound them in a nondescript cover so Crowley wouldn’t be outed. Ezra thought about Crowley’s safety in prison. How Crowley isn’t out here because its dangerous to be himself right now. 

This spoke to Crowley louder than any written apology from Ezra. He was accepted by Ezra, sight unseen. 

Back in the laundry room, Crowley has all the incoming laundry sorted. He now moves on to taking the nearest pile, gray prison issued uniforms, and shoving it into a washing machine. He crosses the aisle to the dryers and pulls out a load of towels. Takes the towels to one of the big tables and starts folding.

With his hands working a repetitive motion, Crowley allows himself to sink into thoughts of Ezra again. He is a little amazed that he has a friend now and that said friend was made by pen pal. Furthermore, Ezra’s friends want to be friends with him. None of them have asked what he did to get thrown in prison. 

Anathema and Tracey want to meet him and Crowley still isn’t sure how to feel about that. How does one meet someone for the fist time in a prison meeting room? What are they supposed to talk about? And what does Anathema mean by auras and healing crystals? Honestly, her notes are becoming a little scary with how insistent she’s being. But Ezra gets to see her everyday and he has survived.

A horrifying thought suddenly pops up into Crowley’s mind. What if Ezra wants to meet? How is Crowley supposed to make a good impression in the lamest clothes on the planet? 

The washer buzzes loudly, pulling Crowley from his reverie. He glances at the clock, 20 minutes to go, then he’s back in his bunk and reading. 

_Dearest Crowley,_

_First, I want to apologize for assuming your gender based where you are currently housed. I’m terribly sorry I did that to you dear one. What are your pronouns? Am I allowed to pass on this information to Tracey and Anathema? I don’t want to out you._

_I am a very deeply gay man. I’ve had one person comment to me that I’m “gayer than a tree full monkeys high on nitrous oxide.” I have no real idea what they meant by it but it’s always given me a laugh. I’ll admit I haven’t kept up with the lgbtqa+ scene. Its been over 10 years since I opened the bookshop and I threw all my time in to that plus I had a boyfriend for several of those years. He left me two years ago. Said I was too boring and never going to go anywhere._

_I went to a book fair and stumbled across a queer bookshop. I got several books on the subject of gender and nonbinary persons. I’ve sent you ones that I think you will like. There’s so much more to the queer community than I previously thought. The lovely person at the booth also said that there is some great fiction being written lately with nonbinary persons cast in a positive light. I got a few of those also but haven’t finished reading them yet. I’ll send them on when I’m done._

_I have several vices. Book hoarding for one. Despite having a literal bookshop beneath my flat, its hard to get around for all the books. Food is another vice. I love food. Most of the money I have is spent on restaurants. Sushi and crepes are some of my favorite foods. I even learned a bit of Japanese to order my favorite meals at my favorite sushi place. The chef there doesn’t speak a lot of English. My French is not on the same level. Can barely remember any of the classes I took in uni. I once was almost arrested in France because there was a terrible mix up due to my skills with that particular language. Final vice would probably be wine. I love a good red. Goes great with a good book._

_Tracey and Anathema say write when you can. We are sending you stamps. Do you need money for the canteen? What can be bought there? Is there snacks or food that is better than the kitchen? Let us know if we can help._

_Yours,_

_Ezra_

* * *

“How was the book fair dearie?” Tracey asked as they sipped their tea. Ezra, Anathema and Newt were over at Tracey’s for Sunday dinner. Tracey had made a roast with potatoes and vegetables. Ezra had brought the wine. It had become a tradition in the last few months to have a family Sunday dinner at Tracey’s every week. Anathema and Ezra both closed shop earlier on Sundays to make it to dinner.

“It was fabulous. We got some restoration business. I found a first, well only edition, of Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Prophecies. And I found some lovely books that I sent to Crowley.” Ezra was expecting some teasing on the Crowley thing, but what he got was Anathema whipping around in her chair so fast, that he was surprised that her head didn’t come off.

“You found Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Prophecies? The only known copy has been lost for 30 years. Do you have it on you? Can I see it?” Anathema was boring holes in him with the intensity of her gaze. She also didn’t seem to be taking a breath to keep talking.

“Of course, I don’t have it on me. It’s back in the shop. I still haven’t really had a chance to look through it.” Ezra was excited to look though it. It wasn’t everyday you found a rare, 350-year-old book. 

“I’m a descendant of Agnes Nutter and my family has had the only copy of her book until some great aunt lost it. I’ve never seen it, only heard about it.”

Ezra was surprised by his friend’s revelation. “Really? I’ve only ever heard of the book though the publisher’s catalog. No one has ever found a copy.” 

“Yes, it’s a family heirloom. Until my great aunt lost it. She doesn’t keep her story straight, so we had no idea where to begin to look to find the book. Where did you find it?” 

“Buried at the bottom of a stack of much abused books by a bookseller from Edinburgh. Its covered in writing and a child drew on the cover page but the cover and binding seem in decent condition.” Ezra took a sip of his tea. The day had taken a rather interesting turn of events. He was not expecting to have his friend have a connection to one of the books he has been hunting for since the beginning. 

“Good. I want to see it. Can we go now?” Anathema had shot out of her seat and started making for the door. 

Ezra was alarmed. He did not want to go to the shop right now. He understood her enthusiasm, but he really was looking forward to this dinner. Tracey was a fabulous cook. “Dear girl, we haven’t even eaten yet. We can look at it tomorrow.”

Anathema stopped and turned, glaring at Ezra. “You promise?”

“Absolutely. Come by and we’ll look at it together.” Ezra smiled at her.

The rest of the night was fairly uneventful. Dinner was splendid as always. Tracey’s neighbor from across the hall, a Mr. Shadwell, came and had dinner with them. His stories were fascinating. Apparently, he was a Sargent in an organization called the Witchfinder’s Army. Which appeared to involve counting nipples and tracking suspicious happenings around the country through clipping the newspaper. Anathema was stifling giggles though most of what Shadwell was saying.

The topic eventually swung around to Crowley, wherein Ezra received a fair bit of teasing. They seemed to think that Ezra had a crush on Crowley. Ezra denied this wholeheartedly. One can’t have a crush on a person they’ve never met. It simply not possible. Plus, Crowley was in prison. Who knew when he would get out. It could be years. Ezra was simply being a good friend.

_Ezra,_

_First, if you’re offering to buy me snacks, yes please. The canteen is like a little shop, with candy bars and packages of crisps. It also has Walkman and TVs and other random stuff that has the possibility of making life a little more bearable here._

_I’ve gotten a job in the laundry. Sorting though the nastiest stuff. Seriously, you would think, the prisoners here would treat the only clothes they have better. Pulling clean and dry stuff out of a dryer and folding it, is kinda nice. Soothing almost._

_Some of the idiots in here don’t realize that you really shouldn’t piss off the laundry guy. I’ve seen one of the other laundry workers deliberately give back too small sizes and another prisoner had his jeans “lost.” On the plus side, I get all the good clothes now. I’m able to set aside the best pair of sweats. No worn so thin its about to be a set of holes for me anymore, no sir. I’m also getting paid. Horrible amounts, but I’m going to save up for that Walkman in the canteen._

_The books were amazing. Gender Queer was my favorite. Do you have anymore of that? I had forgotten graphic novels were a thing. Send whatever you have, I’ll devour it._

_My pronouns are he/him. Safest in prison. No one in here knows I’m nonbinary. Queer people tend to get beat up here and I got enough of that from my old boyfriend. Just trying to stay under the radar. Waiting until I get out. You can tell Anathema and Tracey._

_Please, please tell me how you were “almost arrested.”_

_Crowley_

_Anathema,_

_I’ve added you and Tracey to my visitor list. Come visit me whenever. I’ve also added Ezra while I was filling out the paperwork._

_The guard says you cannot send me a rock. Too much liability. Too much of a chance I could brain someone with it. Sorry your insistence to heal my “aura” is not going to work. Plus, I’m still confused on why it needs healing anyway? Your last letter explaining it, was a bit of a rambling mess. I did try the meditation thing you mentioned. Got a nice nap out of it, so thanks._

_BTW, if you keep referring to me by stupider nicknames, I’m going to have to come up with some for you. You have been warned, witch girl._

_CROWLEY_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. I started a new job in the last couple of weeks and I'm already taking on overtime for it.
> 
> All of the books mentioned in this chapter are real and come highly recommended by me.


End file.
